Page 3 of Expectations (Obstinate, Headstrong Girl #7)

CHAPTER TWO

A BATTLE OF WILLS

D arcy waited upon the front step of a place he had vowed to himself he would never go, in an almost surreal state of impatience and expectation.

The woman who had answered the door, a dour-faced matron with iron-grey hair and a plain-speaking manner, had taken his card, briefly examined it, and after ordering him to wait, shut the door in his face.

Wait! she demands. Wait! Why did I even come, in person? But he knew.

He was here because, seven years ago, he had made almost every error in judgment a man of experience could make. He was here, not to make restitution, but for restoration. Love had nothing whatsoever to do with it; he had crushed that beneath his will long ago.

Did you? his conscience whispered. Is that why you so carefully quiz Mrs Collins, during your annual Easter visit to Kent, regarding the disposition of every member of her family?

Mrs Collins’s conversation was how he learnt when each of the Bennet sisters had married and left Longbourn.

Of course, he already had known that Elizabeth—he would always think of her, simply and only, as Elizabeth —resided at Netherfield, that she always would, and why.

That information had never come from Mrs Collins.

That respectable woman probably had never known—as he did—her sister’s reasons or why the Bingleys had spent, by all accounts, very little time in her company.

He had been surprised to learn that Netherfield was now closed, and he surveyed with a jaundiced eye the somewhat dilapidated appearance of the cottage.

It was sound, yes—but nothing like what Elizabeth and the children had been accustomed to, in either size or stature.

The surrounding grounds were riddled with holes, as if the area was infested with burrowing voles.

Bingley’s affairs must have been in a far greater muddle than his solicitors had implied, and they had implied enough as it was.

He did not wonder why she had not returned to Longbourn.

The door opened, and Elizabeth Bennet emerged.

The intervening years since he had seen her last had done nothing to dim her beauty.

She was tall for a woman, but then, he was a large man, and her height was perfect to him.

Her hair was still luxuriant, thick, and untameable—while her elder sister had possessed golden-blonde curls, Elizabeth’s were every shade between chestnut and chocolate.

Her nose was slightly upturned, her mouth wide, full, and sensual, dimpling when she smiled—although she did not, now—her complexion perfect, her skin creamy and smooth.

But it was her eyes that drew his attention again and again; they grabbed hold of a man and refused to let him go.

Large, dark, framed by thick, sooty lashes, one could lose himself within their depths.

Hers was a beauty which would last all her life, he saw now.

She still wore her mourning, long after she could have cast it off.

“Mr Darcy,” she began. “What a surprise.”

She did not sound surprised. She sounded…angry, and for no reason he could name. It did not matter. Her feelings did not matter, just as his did not. He had a duty, and he would uphold it. If she wanted to have this conversation on her porch instead of her parlour, it made no difference to him.

He bowed in greeting. “I did not learn of Bingley’s death until very recently,” he said, beginning his explanations of why he had come.

Darcy spent most of his time at Pemberley, especially now that Georgiana was wed, and he had never been very social.

The Bingleys had died shortly after his Easter visit to Kent, and he maintained no contact with Bingley’s sisters and very little with Hurst. Still, Georgiana had learnt of it, and written to him a good three or four months past.

At the time, naturally, his first thoughts had been of Elizabeth.

Had she grieved? His mind had filled with unanswerable questions; he had responded in his usual manner, by working from dawn to dusk until he was too tired to think of them any longer.

But now she was here, within a few feet, and he could hardly believe she was real.

“I was told that Bingley’s affairs were not in very good order at the time of his death,” he continued, “but I suppose you know that.”

Still unsmiling, she nodded.

“That is the reason I was given for the failure to inform me immediately that I was named, in his will, as guardian to his son, Thomas Charles Bingley.”

She abruptly lost all colour, and stumbling forwards, clutched at the wall as if to stop herself from falling. He stepped up to catch her if she fainted, but the look she turned upon him warned that she would not thank him for any assistance. Carefully, she again drew herself upright.

“That is impossible. His solicitors said…they said there was no will.”

“Hurst had it,” he explained, “in a box of Bingley’s other papers.

He did not think them important, and almost had them thrown out, but finally decided, most recently, to look through them.

It was not much of a will, to be perfectly frank.

It named a few bequests, including a horse by the name of ‘Gallant’, which was to go to me, and it appointed his son to my guardianship.

But it was witnessed, appropriately and independently. ”

Elizabeth appeared so fragile suddenly. Again, he worried that she might swoon.

“The horse was s-sold. To pay other debts,” she said, stumbling over her words.

“The solicitors told me. It does not signify.”

“And…and Cassandra?” she whispered. “You are her guardian as well?”

Six years prior, Mrs Collins had related to him the births of Bingley’s ‘twins’, a boy and a girl, a mere seven months after Bingley’s wedding date.

The boy, evidently, favoured his father in every aspect of looks.

The girl…she favoured the Bennet side of the family.

Darcy was completely unsurprised that Bingley had intentionally neglected provision for his daughter’s welfare. Neither should Elizabeth be.

“She was not mentioned.”

At this moment, the door slammed open, and a tiny, dark-haired fairy princess in black bombazine danced out onto the porch.

“How-d’you-do?” she asked, curtseying in a surprisingly elegant manner for one so young. He could not help examining her closely, and seeing in her every fulfilment of Mrs Collins’s descriptions.

Elizabeth turned to the little girl. “You have not been introduced,” she reproved. “What does Auntie say about speaking to strangers?”

“But you were speaking to him!” the princess accused in return.

Upon him, she turned a winsome smile. “Sir, Auntie forgot to introduce us,” she said.

“Auntie does forget things. Last week, she forgot it was my turn to fetch eggs from our chickens…Lucy, Clara, Cora, and Ada. She told Tommy to do it, but it was not his turn at all.”

Elizabeth frowned, but the colour was returning to her cheeks. “It is you who believes it is always your turn, and never your brother’s.”

The little girl ignored her, continuing to address Darcy.

“It was the Sabbath, the dullest day of the week, and I wanted to go outside and gather them, and we always take turns on Sundays and I remember it was my turn because he did it the same day as Cora—she’s a girl, not a hen—brought a mouse to church and made Miss Bradshaw scream.

You would think Auntie would remember that .

’Sides, Tommy doesn’t like fetching eggs.

He worries his hand will be pecked. I’m too fast, like this.

” She demonstrated a quick plucking motion in the air. “See?”

He saw, quite clearly. This precocious little girl was a handful. Again, he was completely unsurprised.

Elizabeth spoke, her voice firmer, he noted. “Mr Darcy, please meet Miss Cassandra Bingley. Miss Bingley, Mr Darcy.”

He bowed, as she gave another elaborate curtsey. “I am Cassandra Elizabeth—it sounds so much better than just plain Cassandra.”

Before he could respond, Elizabeth did. “Now Cassandra, Mr Darcy and I have matters to discuss. You will return to the nursery, if you please.”

“What matters?”

“Dull, adult matters,” he tried.

“I love adult matters,” she retorted. “I am eight minutes older than Tommy, you know.”

“Cassandra.”

This stricter tone of voice had the hoped-for result. Cassandra sighed in a deeply put-upon fashion, but still curtseyed again quite prettily to him before—very slowly—returning indoors.

Elizabeth turned to him once she was gone, clenching and unclenching her fists, staring at him defiantly. She had gathered herself now, and was preparing for a fight.

It was hopeless. All these years, despite everything, and he was anticipating it, wanting the fight, wanting her.

He wanted to hate her for it, still.